Conceived Without Sin (16 page)

"Jesus' genes are as much Mary's as God's. And you wonder why Catholics love her so much. And you really have to wonder why Protestants make like she's just
a random chick who was in the right place at the right time.

"The Immaculate Conception makes a lot more sense if you think about it. Would God mix His genetic code with code that decays and dies? Remember, in Genesis, death is one of the punishments for Original Sin. Would He mix with sinful flesh if He had another option? He made Mary, and He created her sinless. That's what the Franciscans
always argued.

"Now some theologians I've been reading say she died after a fashion, or fell asleep, and then was assumed into heaven. I read somewhere that the Eastern Orthodox call it her Dormition. The details have not been revealed. But I don't think she died the way we died, if she died at all. I don't think her body decayed. I think Jesus woke her up and took her up to heaven wide awake.
That's just my opinion."

Buzz saw he was losing Sam. He caught himself, and decided he was done.

"Look, Mary was given the option to nix the whole thing right then and there. She could've said 'no.' Thank God she didn't. Thank her when you pray. Two thousand years later, it's still the most interesting thing to talk about in the world.

"Now that is funky stuff, Sam. And Donna and I believe it.
Or at least the part that's not speculation."

Buzz leaned back in his chair and slouched a bit. He was worn out, but in a good way.

"You know," Donna said after a pause. "When we receive Communion. When we consume Him, we consume Him
body, blood,
soul and divinity. We must also be consuming Mary's flesh. Well, maybe not her flesh–" Donna was thinking on her feet "–but her genetic code. Far out."

But she wasn't quite sure if everything Buzz had said was true. It was interesting, though. She would have to think about it. Maybe ask Sister Elizabeth about it.

Sam took a long, hard look at the ocean. There was a word in his heart, but he couldn't hear it. Even if he did, he doubted he could translate it into English.

"That's pretty wild," he said softly. "Thanks, Buzz. I'm not sure what to
say. Your…your religion, it's…intimate. Flesh. Eating. Flashes of light from Angels. I don't believe it. It's just not in me. But I want to believe it. It's not cardboard gods hurling flameballs at each other from Mount Olympus, or a cold, old man on a big throne with a giant tablet listing your sins. It's…"

Sam had come to the point where he was able to describe what the faith wasn't. He couldn't
say what it was. It was beyond him. Beyond the ocean's slashing waves a stone's throw away from him.

"It, our religion," Buzz finished for him, searching for words that wouldn't hurt his friend, but still pushing, challenging–still relentlessly loving–Sam, "is something most people don't want to hear about because it's so jolting, so wild, so interesting and beautiful that you have to come to
terms with it."

"No, Buzz," Donna said. "You're wrong. Well, you're right and you're wrong. Sorry. You don't come to terms with
it,
you come to terms with
a man.
You come to terms with Him.

"Either Jesus was a mere man or He was what the angel implied He was, true God and true man. You've got to come to terms with Him. Who is He? Was the angel lying? If He wasn't a mix of Mary and the Father,
then who was the human father?"

"You don't have to come to terms with him," Sam disagreed, still looking at the ocean, a distant look in his eyes and a far away sound in his voice. "You can
ignore
him. Even though his footprints are all over our civilization. At least that's what my father used to say. Jesus is everywhere. I've lived my whole life without ever really thinking about him except
in an academic way. Now, I'm becoming uncomfortable.

"No," he continued, "there was one time."

He turned back to his friends.

"One time, in a museum. I wondered about him. A long time ago."

"Tell us about it," Donna asked.

Buzz knew that she had pushed too much. He didn't know how he knew. Maybe it was the look in Sam's eyes.
I've pushed him pretty hard myself.

"Sorry," Sam said, standing up.
"My brain is fried."

A very awkward silence ensued.

Buzz spilled his Pepsi, on purpose, on Donna. He practically aimed it at her.

"Buzz!" she yelled, genuinely angry, rising up. Her wrap skirt was soaked and already sticky.

"Sorry," Buzz said, not sorry.

"Is this your way of breaking the tension?" Sam demanded, sounding a bit unbalanced.

"Yes," Buzz said, smiling. "Donna, why don't you empty your
Gin and Tonic on me?"

Her eyes narrowed to slits.

"Don't mind if I do," she said in a huff, and flicked the contents of her glass into Buzz's face as if she had been practicing for years. Then she took the beer out of Sam's hand, walked around the table and poured it on Buzz, who sat as calm as a kid in a barber's chair.

"You guys are weirder than your religion," Sam finally said.

"Thank you,"
Buzz said.

Donna made a frustrated noise. "I'm going for a walk. Let's go, Sam."

Sam looked back from Donna to Buzz and back again.

"Go ahead, Sam. See you in while. I'll go rent the video. Sergeant York?" He looked to Donna.

She had already started toward the beach.

"Whatever," she said without turning back. "Come on. Let's go, Sam. Race you to the water!"

She began to jog.

Sam paused, then jumped
over the rail of the deck and started walking after her.

"That went well," Buzz told himself aloud.

He pulled the keys out of his pocket. Then he put them back in. He went inside to change his shirt and dry off his hair. He hadn't smelled of beer like this in a long time.

+  +  +

Sergeant Alvin C. York got under Sam's skin, too.

5

That night, before Donna could fall off to sleep, the enemies of
Grace arrived. She did not see them. They began with an effort to push creepy images to the edge of Donna's consciousness, hoping her mind would grasp them.

Horrible images from two movies she had seen seemed to pop uncalled into her mind.

Donna had never slept alone in an empty house, not once, not even during college, before this weekend. The dark room, the unfamiliar bed, the unusual sounds
of the wind on the window, combined with her aloneness, managed to give her a chill.

A fright. The willies.

She found it hard to keep her eyes closed. She imagined a shadow near the closet.

Come on,
she told herself,
you're acting like a child.

The wind kicked up. The wind
was kicked
up. A window somewhere else in the house rattled. She turned her head quickly. Now, she was frightened.

Is someone
in the house?

Her ears perked up. She heard more sounds.

This is crazy.

The enemies of grace were not used to taking shots at Donna Beck, who was normally well-protected.

Suddenly, she remembered to pray. Then she remembered that she had left her rosary beads in Rocky River. With great effort, she began to move her lips silently and began the Rosary, keeping count on her fingers.

She offered her
fear up for Sam.

The enemies of grace saw her lips moving and became incensed. They were allowed more leeway…

…Donna felt hot breath on her face. She stifled a scream.

Jesus!
she cried out in her head.

Then she prayed the Name out loud.

"Jesus."

That worked. She was not a veteran of spiritual warfare. But she had good instincts.

She prayed the Saint Michael prayer.

"Saint Michael the Archangel,
defend us in battle. Be our safeguard against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God rebuke him, we humbly pray, and do thou, O Prince of the Heavenly Host, by the power of God cast into hell satan and all the evil spirits who prowl about the world seeking the ruin of souls. Amen."

But she still had the creeps. She kept praying her Rosary. She rejected the idea of going downstairs.

She
was a tough guy.

Grace had taken a chance with her, and she was responding. Grace knew that Sam couldn't bear the attacks alone, and allowed the attacks to fall upon one who loved him.

Donna managed to fall asleep by the third decade.

She dreamed that she was in a hospital. She had hurt her knee in a basketball game. She was in a large ward, with rows of beds, and hundreds of patients. Most were
convicted killers.

They've brought me to the wrong hospital! I'm in the prison ward!

She tried to get up, but her busted knee made the effort fruitless.

A nurse with one of her eyelids pierced by a safety pin ran up and floated near the end of her bed. Donna saw a snake's tongue come out of her mouth as she spoke: "Treatment time!"

There was evil good cheer in the nurse's voice.

"You're here for
life! Hard time!"

The nurse laughed a sickly laugh.

"No!" Donna cried out.

She saw three human frogs in orderly's uniforms coming up the hallway (now her room was a single–no other patients in the room now). Two were carrying rusty axes. The other was carrying a medieval club and flail.

"For life!" the nurse screamed. Her face had turned into a webbing of crumpled metal screening, like an insane
fencer.

"Or death!"

The frog men were all around her. Donna couldn't move…they raised their axes and saws and chains and spikes and giant scalpels…and began to chop at her leg…

…Donna awoke from the nightmare, clawing at her knees, screaming. Beads of sweat were on her forehead. Her hair and nightshirt were soaked.

Screw this.

She tightly clasped one end of her scapular in her hand.

She gathered
her blanket around her with her free hand and fumbled the light on once she got to the door. She remembered that she kept a Saint Benedict medal in her travel kit. Her father had given it to her before she went on a trip with the Girl Scouts.

What? Ten years ago? The trip to Washington.

She went to the bathroom, pulled the kit open, and found the tricolored medal quickly. She let go of the scapular
and grasped the medal. She adjusted the blanket around herself, and walked purposefully to the door, then out and downstairs.

When Sam opened the door, in answer to her loud knocking, he was rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Donna? What's the matter?" he yawned.

"Heebee jeebees," she said, anger in her voice. She was embarrassed. Like a little kid.

That woke Sam up. "Yeah, all alone. Buzz is a jerk
for making you stay up there all alone. I'd get the creepy crawlers up there all alone."

She wasn't going to argue with him. She was shivering. Quite innocently, he gave her a hug to warm her.

He was Sam. And still a bit sleepy.

She allowed herself an extra moment of solace in his arms.

This is where I belong.
She pulled away.
But not right now. And not this way. Not out of pity.

She was disoriented
herself.

"Why don't you take my bed, Donna," he suggested. "I'll sleep on the couch. I'll be right outside your door if you get spooked again."

"You don't have to," she said, then added, "I'll take the couch. You won't fit on it."

"I'll put the cushions on the floor. No more discussion. I'm waking up." He yawned.

He turned and walked to the couch, then quickly arranged the cushions on the floor.
He practically collapsed onto them.

"My bed is still…warm… for …you." And then he fell asleep.

She got a blanket from the hall closet, and lovingly placed it over his long body, resisting an urge to stroke his face with her hand.

The willies were gone by the time she slipped into Sam's bed. She was still mildly disappointed with herself for not being man enough to stick it out upstairs. Even so,
there was a peaceful countenance on her face as she drifted off to sleep; she was pleased that she managed to finish her Rosary.

Grace, however, was not disappointed. His stout little soldier had fought well. For Him. For herself.

And for Sam.

Chapter Eight

1

Sam Fisk dialed the number he dialed most often.

"Hello. This is the Fisk residence," Edward Fisk said.

"Hello Father," Sam said, stealing a furtive glance toward the surf, where Buzz and Donna were standing, beyond the tall dune grass, with their feet up to their ankles in the water.

"Hello son. How are you enjoying your first visit to the ocean?" Edward asked.

+  +  +

"You know
something, Buzz?" Donna said, looking out at the water. There were clouds in the sky, but the temperature was pleasant.

"What?"

"You don't know everything," she said. Her tone was not unkind, but there was a faint hint of accusation.

"Never said I did. What's bothering you?" Buzz replied, turning to look at her. She didn't look back.

"I think you're pushing Sam too hard," she replied. "With all
that genetic stuff and connecting to the past because the Father sees Jesus in you–things like that."

"What's the harm? I'm just throwing out ideas, trying to get him excited. I'm not a theologian."

+  +  +

"I love the ocean," Sam said, hesitating. He wanted to say more, but somehow he couldn't.
The secret life of men,
he heard Donna's voice in his head.

"And how are your friends?" Edward continued.

"Just fine. Characters, really. I want you to meet them when you come to Cleveland for your lecture."

"I would enjoy that. It's good to see you're not spending all your time on your business. All work and no play…"

"Makes Sam a dull boy. I understand, Father. So how is your new book coming along?"

"Oh that. I've been procrastinating. But it's going to come out just fine. I'm excited about it. Maybe
ten other professors will read it."

"Don't say that," Sam said. "You know it will be well received."

+  +  +

"Besides, he's my friend, too. I'm only trying to help him," Buzz defended himself, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice. He wasn't normally this sensitive to criticism.

"But you have to take into consideration that Sam is just starting to open up to new ideas. Some of your speculation
could lead him right out of agnosticism into–"

"Pantheism or Protestantism?"

"What's pantheism?" she asked.

"The belief that God and nature aren't separated. That God is nature, or nature is God. Me, you, those seashells, the medical waste floating out there–it's all God."

"Kinda like taking God as the source of all Being and remaking Him into the stuff He keeps in existence," Donna observed.

"Yeah, you got it. Most religious falsehoods are based on a truth.

"Look, I want to think about what you said about misleading Sam. I wouldn't want to be responsible for leading him out of the darkness right back into heresy. He's an honest agnostic. There's something noble about that. Can you imagine him spouting Bible verses outside Tower City Center, calling the Church the Whore of Babylon?"

"No, not Sam," she said, a kind of dreaminess in her voice. "He'd be a kind and considerate Protestant. The kind that's really hard to change."

+  +  +

"Father…may I ask you something?" There was hesitation in Sam's voice.

"Of course," Edward said.

"Do you…do you ever think about death?"

"Yes. It's part of my next book. Sartre says that death and knowledge are–"

"No, not that way," Sam cut him
off nervously. "Do you ever think about your own death?"

"I don't know what you mean." Edward's tone changed. It was not cold–but it was less warm.

"I mean, do you ever think of what will happen
to you
when you die?"

There was a pause that seemed to last as long as the tides took to change.

"No. There is nothing for me after. Nothing after death."

Edward's tone had risen to a slight level of agitation.
Sam could not remember the last time his father, whom he talked to every other day, had used such a tone.

He's telling me the subject is closed.

"But Father–"

"It's the only rational position," Edward's voice softened. "Please forgive me for snapping at you."

Another long pause.

"Yes, of course. You're right. It must be the ocean."

"Yes, the ocean. The ocean is not rational."

That's not a rational
statement either, Father,
Sam thought, shaken. Shaken worse than by anything Buzz or Donna had told him in the last two days.

"Samuel? Are you still on the line?"

"Sorry, Father. I was just thinking."

"Thinking? About what?"

"Uh, nothing. Nothing at all, sir," Sam lied. "I was daydreaming. My friends are expecting me down at the surf. Can you hear it?"

"Yes, and I understand. You wish to join
them. I have a bit of reading to do. I love you, Sam."

"I love you, Father."

+  +  +

"So where
do
you get all your theological ideas?" she asked.

"You're not going to like the real answer," he said, confusing her.

"So give me the phony answer first," she said after a moment.

She's quick,
Buzz noted.
Here goes.

"Phony answer: I read a lot. Well, that's even true. I read four or five hours a day.
Sometimes six or seven hours if I don't see you or Sam. When I was married, I read almost as much. Anything, fiction, science, sports, anything. I'm great at Jeopardy."

"So's my dad," Donna said. "What does that have to do with anything? No–wait–I get it. You read a lot of theology now. And that doesn't sound phony. That sounds normal. Which leads me to another question. How did you ever end up
at Notre Dame? Isn't that a hard school to get into?"

"One question at a time, Grasshopper. And yeah, I do read a lot of spiritual books. Even about other religions–it's good to know the competition. I've read like a crazy man ever since I came back to the faith after my divorce. One time I read a quote by the founder of Opus Dei, Monsignor Josemaría Escrivá. 'For the modern apostle, an hour of
study is an hour of prayer.' But–"

Buzz stopped to throw a clam shell sideways into the ocean. Its trajectory went on a curve upward before falling to the water.

"Cool," Donna said, referring to the shell's flight. "How do you do that?"

He fished another half-shell from the sand below the water at their feet. It was about three inches across.

"You hold it like this. See? Then you just throw it
sidearm, but straight. It'll rise on its own."

He threw his shell, and it took the same surprising trajectory.

She found a shell. He helped her find the right grip. She threw it, and it climbed like Buzz's, but not nearly as far or high, and with a wobble.

"You got it," he said.

"Cool."

She began to search for another shell. They were both enjoying the leisure of the ocean, knowing there was plenty
of time for talk.

After a few more tosses, she asked, "So what's the real answer? Do you call the pope every night?"

"No, but you're close. You're close."

He threw another shell. Sam came out the door of the house behind them. They heard it bang. Donna saw him and waved.

"Quit stalling," she told him plainly, before turning back to the ocean.
If he doesn't want to tell me, then he doesn't want
to tell Sam, either.
She could just tell.

"I have a gift," he began. "I just know what the Church teaches and what it doesn't. I'm not infallible or anything, but whenever I read or hear something the Church teaches, it's like it was already inside my heart and mind. It's weird. It's like I'm learning something I already know. The only problem is, I can't always express it in words. It comes out
weird. Sometimes it comes out wrong, but when I hear what the Church really teaches, I accept it without reservation. Maybe that's why I like to talk about things with you and Sam. It helps me figure out how to say what I already know. Or think I know."

He finished, a slightly helpless look on his face.
She's going to tell me I'm full of it.

"Oh, Buzz. Maybe all you're describing is the gift of
faith, and the way God works through you," she said, turning to him.

"You think so?"

"Yes."

"You mean you believe me?" he said. He wasn't really asking, so much as looking for confirmation.

"Of course, Silly. Why would you make it up? I'm just wondering why you kept something like that to yourself."

"Because I'm not sure what it is. One time I was praying and asking God about it and…"

"And what?"
She was genuinely curious.

"And I could have sworn I heard a voice say that it pleased God."

"What pleased God? And what voice?" the young woman pressed. She was the one pushing now.

"It pleased Him that I knew what the Church teaches. That He made me that way. And the voice? I don't know. It wasn't inside or outside of my mind. It was just there."

Donna remembered the first time she had prayed
the Rosary well at her parish.

"Hmmn. You are a strange one, Buzz. But not as strange as you think."

"Thank you," he said, without his usual smugness.

Why
did
you hide that from us?
she thought.
Maybe you're insecure.

She shook her head at him, and smiled. She resisted an urge to hug Buzz. Sam was only a few yards away now and it would look wrong–it would look, well, like she was excluding a friend.

Why haven't you brought either one home to your family?
a little voice asked her.
Who's the insecure one?

Oh shut up,
she told herself.

"Hey Sam! How's your dad? Did you get through?" Buzz called out. She turned.

"He's doing well. He's looking forward to meeting you both."

Sam reached for a clam shell. "Show me how you throw it?"

Buzz taught Sam the same method he taught Donna.

Sam's toss, slung
from his long thin arm, put Buzz's earlier throws to shame.

"Show off," Donna kidded.

"Luck," Buzz weighed in.

"Skill," Sam rejoined casually.

It was nice to be back with his friends.
What does that say about your father?
an inner voice asked him.

Warm friends and cold feet in the ocean, at the beach, down the shore.

Sam chose to ignore the voice.

Why spoil things?

+  +  +

Later, they watched
Heaven Can Wait.

"Her lips are really big," Buzz said seriously after the credits.

"Julie Christie's?" Sam asked.

"So are Warren Beatty's," Donna added.

"They should have called it
Big Lips Can Wait,"
Buzz said.

"Is that a joke, or a serious cinematic critique?" Sam asked.

Donna giggled, and the bowl of popcorn slipped off her belly. Buzz caught it.

"Did you know," Buzz asked, changing the subject,
"that Siskel and Ebert have changed their names? Officially, on their driver's licenses and everything."

"Seriously?" Donna asked.

"Seriously, to help their show."

"What did they change them to?" Sam asked.

"The Fat Guy and the Other One," Buzz deadpanned.

"I don't get it," Sam said. "Why would they do that?"

"Very funny, Buzz," Donna said. "Sam, nobody can remember which one is which, so they
always say, 'the fat guy gave it thumbs up and the other guy didn't.'"

"Oh."

"I'm going for a walk," Donna said, rising, too sensitive to let Sam know she was going for a walk to pray a Rosary for him.

"Is it safe?" Sam asked.

"Sure," Buzz said. "Seriously. This island is safe. But stay within shouting distance, and bring my gun with you, Donna."

"You have a gun?" Donna asked skeptically, tilting
her head.

"No," Buzz said, smiling. "But you'll be safe. There are beach patrols. Sam and I will stay out on the deck. It's low tide, and we'll hear you if you yell for us. Stay close."

"You guys are great. Don't stop being so overprotective. It makes me feel like a princess."

"That's what you are," Buzz said, touchingly sincere. Sam nodded.

She blushed sweetly, then turned to walk to the door.
She pulled her Indian's sweatshirt on, then walked out, grasping Buzz's rosary beads in her pocket. She had borrowed them earlier. Sister Elizabeth's words echoed in her mind:
Do you pray, Donna? I mean,
really
pray, putting your whole self into it the way you put yourself into sports?

"No," Donna told herself now, feeling the cold sand beneath her feet, looking back at the lights on the deck.
Sam and Buzz were coming out. The moon was out, and they waved. She waved back.

But tonight will be different. And tomorrow.
She had something to pray for.
Someone to pray for.

2

Most resolutions are like sandcastles, quickly washed away with the first worldly wave. But Donna's resolution was a real one. She would keep it. She would
really
pray. She was inspired by a friend who read books as his
prayer; another friend who couldn't pray for himself; a nun who suggested she put normal human effort into prayer; and by the soulful sounds of calm breakers in God's natural cathedral. She took a giant step toward sanctity. Her first step toward her own destiny, which was still a mystery to her. Grace had called. She answered. And neither would break the connection–until forever. Now and forever.

3

Sam was leaning on the weathered rail of the deck. Buzz was sitting at the circular picnic table, a glass of water before him.

"You wanna call Ellie? I'll stay here and keep an eye out for Donna," Buzz offered.

"No, it's still early," Sam replied. "I'll call her later. She's probably out on a business dinner. Besides, I want to ask you about her."

Buzz took a sip of water. He lit a cigarette.
He waited. Sam remained silent. Time to push.

"Let me guess," Buzz said, a prelude.

"Go ahead."

"You're gonna marry her."

Sam smiled sheepishly, but managed not to look down at his shoes.